


Burning

by Grasshunter



Series: Summer Heat Bingo 2020 [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Biting, M/M, Marking, Mating Cycles/In Heat, PWP, do I know how to write these characters? no. am I going to do it anyway? yes, mild alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:09:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25478206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grasshunter/pseuds/Grasshunter
Summary: Drift goes into heat. Rodimus is a little slow on the uptake.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Series: Summer Heat Bingo 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1845637
Comments: 2
Kudos: 66





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Super quick drabble! Enjoy.

Rodimus knows he’s in for a hell of a time when Drift grabs him by the shoulders and presses him against the door, which barely has time to shut before Rodimus is pinned up against it.

“Drift --” Rodimus is cut off by another harsh kiss, one where the pricks of Drift’s pointed teeth drag across his lip and consume his entire awareness, wiping the words from his processor. He’s a little surprised by how strongly the sharp-fanged kiss echoes downwards, pulsing warmly across his array.

When Drift pulls away to nip at his neck, Rodimus catches his breath just enough to ask, “What’s gotten into you? Dragging me out of Swerve’s like that and slamming me up against a door…”

Drift pauses for a second at that, face pulling slightly away from the corner of Rodimus’ neck. Then, laughing lowly, Drift moves his hands from Rodimus’ shoulders to the wall, framing his head and effectively pinning him. He pulls away fully from his neck to look him in the eyes. Drift’s bright-burning optics blaze like torches, narrowing with eagerness and something impish. With a smile that spreads slowly across his face, he reaches one hand off to the side.

The door lock clicks as Drift engages it. From just behind Rodimus’ head, the lock is louder than a gunshot from so close. Rodimus feels his spike jump in its housing at the noise and implication.

“For the captain of a starship, Rodimus, I gotta admit…” Rodimus startles when all four of Drift’s claws clatter against his panel, as if he were tapping them boredly on a desk. Drift must have slid his hand down while Rodimus was busy staring at the sly, almost mocking look on Drift’s face. He barely manages to keep his hips from rolling against Drift’s hand. “You’re not exactly the sharpest sword in the forge sometimes.”

Rodimus sputters, taken aback. The few he had at Swerve’s makes him defensive, even during heated foreplay. His processor whirls with confusion, asking several questions at once. Why is Drift being so dominant? Why are his optics so bright? What is he talking about? And, most importantly, why is he  _ liking _ being dominated so much? He’s the the Captain with a capital C  _ and  _ the closest thing to a Prime on-board, damnit. 

Drift pulls him back into reality with a slow grind of the heel of his palm against the front of Rodimus’ modesty panel. It barely presses against his node underneath, and it only teases and frustrates him more than gives him any satisfaction. 

After a few breaths, Rodimus remembers that he should probably respond to being called stupid. “I’m -- I’m sharper than even  _ Cyclonus’  _ big  _ stupid  _ sword, damn you. Screw you and how you  _ completely _ forced in that sword metaphor. You’re just being opaque. And really horny. Not that I’m complaining.”

Drift rolls his eyes. “You literally just said answered your own question, but here’s a hint.” He moves up to grind their modesty plates together; the dull metallic sound of their collision and the striking, blazing heat of Drift’s panel makes Rodimus curse under his breath. “I  _ will _ be spiking tonight.”

Immediately, Rodimus replies, “But you almost always bottom?”

As Drift arches an eyebrow at him, Rodimus realises. “Oh.” Rodimus looks at Drift with wide eyes, taking in all the clues again and piecing them together. The heat distorting the air above Drift’s plating in waves; his eagerness to interface even right up against the hallway door; the dominance and sudden need to use his spike, against his usual preference; and the subtle smell of something musky and organic in the air, queer but not unpleasant…

“You’re in heat.”

Drift smirks at him, all desire and cockiness. “Ding-ding-ding. We have a winner.” The hint of a sharp tooth poking out in Drift’s smile, catching a single point of light against the dim room, steals all of Rodimus’ attention. “I had enough at Swerve’s and now I really,  _ really _ don’t feel like holding it back anymore. Can’t do it. Especially when you’re this much fun.”

Rodimus realises that Drift looks startlingly Decepticon like this, all claws and fangs and scheming smiles half-hidden in the darkness. It should be a turn-off, especially to a _former_ _Prime,_ but… on Drift in heat, it’s far more attractive than it has any right to be.

Drift reaches down to slide a hand under Rodimus’ knee and tugs upward. Taking the hint, Rodimus hikes his thigh up around the small of Drift’s back; with the new angle, their panels make even closer contact, and they slot together easily.

“Primus…” Rodimus breathes, letting his head fall back against the door. With the greater contact between their panels, the growing heat between them feels molten, especially as it pours off of Drift. Rodimus feels lightheaded, probably because all his energon is rerouting away from his processor and into his array; or, perhaps, because of the musky scent of Drift, intoxicating and thick in such close quarters.

“Don’t say his name in vain,” Drift teases, leaning in towards Rodimus’ exposed neck cables. A quiet  _ click _ from below heralds that Drift allowed his spike to pressurise. Rodimus can feel the feverish heat from Drift’s spike burning in the air between their bodies.

“I feel like the P-bomb is warranted in this case,” Rodimus says as he rolls his hips against Drift’s again, scorching his plating.

He has another quip lined up, but it vanishes from his processor when Drift nips at an energon line in his neck. The bright pain and sensitivity melt confusingly into how  _ good _ it feels, dragging a choked noise out of Rodimus. The bite makes his knees feel airy and he slides down the door a few inches before he catches himself.

When Rodimus realises that Drift is marking him with bites -- obvious, visible bites, at that -- he automatically slides his valve panel open with a shudder. A few drops of lubricant out to paint his thighs, though Rodimus is too charged up to feel self-conscious about how wet he is.

Drift leans back to run two fingers over the outside of Rodimus’ valve, swiping them through the faintly glowing slick, intentionally dragging too quickly over his node. The sensation makes Rodimus grab at Drift’s hips; the word “more” stutters in his vocaliser, and a faint note of static comes out of his mouth.

Drift cleans off his fingers with his mouth, happily making a show of it and watching Rodimus’ eyes flick down to stare at his mouth. Rodimus feels his vocaliser offline at that.

A small bit of his lubricant smears on Drift’s lip and it glows rose in the shadows of the room, highlighting the intense blue light of Drift’s optics, focused completely on Rodimus. Vivid neon and the dull darkness paint Drift’s face as something threatening but, paradoxically, draws Rodimus in further.

“Primus,” Rodimus says again.

Drift laughs, narrowing his eyes like a predator’s and showing off his glinting fangs again. “Save it for when I’m fucking you into the wall, Rodimus. Then it’ll really be warranted.”


End file.
